His hand took hers again. His palm was dry and firm. Jiang Du’s was slick with perspiration.
Inside the elevator, Wei Qingyue gave her a quiet smile.
His home was strikingly large — wide and bright. Jiang Du stood in the doorway, taken aback for a moment. Wei Qingyue found her a pair of women’s slippers. She looked down at them, then looked up — with a scrutinizing, guarded glance.
The slippers were brand new. No one had ever worn them.
“When I moved in, I bought everything in twos — one set for me, one set for you. I thought that someday, somehow, I might have the chance to bring you here. Better to be prepared.” Wei Qingyue explained this in an even tone, and Jiang Du was completely struck speechless. It was only upon seeing the price tag still attached to the slippers that something inside her finally let go completely.
She had been in love with him all this time, longing for him — but she wasn’t a senseless fool.
After washing her hands, Jiang Du had been about to use a paper napkin, but Wei Qingyue handed her a fresh towel instead.
“Come, let me show you our home.” He said our without thinking, and the ache in Jiang Du’s heart rose to an impossible speed.
“The master bedroom — see? Your dressing table.” Wei Qingyue touched his phone, and the curtains slowly parted.
Besides the bed and wardrobe, the master bedroom had a dressing table — prepared for Jiang Du. All these years, Wei Qingyue had remained convinced that Jiang Du would come to live in this apartment. During the renovation, he had asked Zhang Xiaoqiang’s advice, inquiring what a girl would need.
He guided Jiang Du to sit before the dressing table. The mirror reflected their figures, softly blurred. Wei Qingyue gave a mildly awkward cough: “The auntie probably hasn’t dusted this area, seeing as no one uses it. I’ll have a word with her.”
“Is this mine?” Jiang Du reached back and took hold of his hand resting on her shoulder. Wei Qingyue said simply: “Of course,” and then led her onward — through the open-plan kitchen, the bathroom, and finally to the study.
The study was especially large. A long, solid-wood desk stood at the very center. Bookshelves lined two entire walls.
In one corner stood a tall potted plant, its leaves a fresh, vivid green. Wei Qingyue, for all his dislike of tidying up, tended the study with exceptional care — he had not once forgotten to water the plant.
“This wall is for my books; this one is for yours. When I’ve earned a little more, we’ll look for a Japanese dry garden — a small courtyard. Not purely in that style, of course — it would incorporate those elements. Something like this,” Wei Qingyue began talking about plans for the future, gesturing with his hands and sketching things out for Jiang Du. “A principal landscape tree about here. Oh, let me show you the design concept I made — if you have any thoughts or ideas, we can talk through them.”
He pulled her to the living room, opened the computer, and dug out the rough sketches he had drawn. His face was alight with enthusiasm.
The sketches were somewhat rough, but the rendered design was clear and detailed. Wei Qingyue had spent a long time studying The Heart of Japanese Garden Design.
“Do you like it? If you don’t like the Japanese elements, we can change them. I was thinking that a Chinese-style garden takes too much space — not realistic. A home with a view should put you in a better mood — I hope I’m not wrong about that. You love nature, so we could plant a tree like the one in front of the Mei Middle School library?” Wei Qingyue asked her opinion earnestly, and then smiled warmly. “With me here too, it won’t be pitch-black and frightening for you.”
Jiang Du held his rough sketch in her hand. She hadn’t looked at it. She hadn’t looked at the screen. She only looked quietly at Wei Qingyue.
His eyes blazed with light. In all his plans, she had always been there.
Jiang Du couldn’t fathom what it was that sustained Wei Qingyue’s fervor through all this time — this ability to go through twelve years, day after day, year after year, carrying her as though she were right beside him, present in his life.
The corners of her eyes slowly brimmed with tears. Wei Qingyue had been explaining the thinking behind each design element, and when he looked up, he froze.
Jiang Du just looked at him. The tears fell freely, large drops rolling down one after another.
Dust floated in the air from the last time it had been swept — breathe in deeply, and it would all be drawn into the lungs, all that dust’s regret and trembling joy breathed straight to the bottom of her heart.
“Then let’s get married,” she said, sniffling, and finally said it before he did — stole the moment from him.
Wei Qingyue was still for a few seconds. The corners of his mouth moved first in a small, quiet tug, and then he laughed out loud — a laugh that kept going until it became a cough, and the coughing made his eyes grow damp and soft.
He said: “That’s something the man should say first. How did you end up competing with me for it? Foolish girl.”
That evening, Jiang Du stayed.
She called the elderly couple while Wei Qingyue watched, doing her best to sound calm: “I’m at Wei Qingyue’s place. I won’t be going home tonight.”
She hung up in a rush. Her ears were red. Her chest rose and fell.
Jiang Du rose from the sofa and walked to the enormous floor-to-ceiling window. Wei Qingyue’s gaze followed her the whole way.
She looked at the lights outside, and in the glass she could also see Wei Qingyue’s reflection walking toward her, one step at a time, drawing closer and closer.
Her breath slowly held. Jiang Du felt her very teeth beginning to tremble. The words were as though wrenched out of her by some force she couldn’t name:
“Wei Qingyue — when exactly do you plan to sell yourself?”
The night was deep, deepening moment by moment, inch by inch.
The figure behind her came to a stop. His answer was as direct as he had always been, in everything he did:
“Tonight.”
And of course, the man did not forget to add:
“If Miss Ghostwriter is willing.”